The River Knows

by Amanda Quick

  “When I received a report that his body had been discovered in the rooms above Barclay’s Bookshop I went around at once. I found Miss Barclay’s suicide note.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A poker with blood and hair on it.”

  “Was that all?”

  “One more thing,” Fowler said slowly. He set his fork down with great precision. “It did not appear in the press because we did not tell the journalists about it. I discovered a knife on the floor beside the bed. Some might say, of course, that Miss Barclay intended to stab Gavin with it after she bashed in his head with the poker just to see to it that he was good and dead.”

  “I take it you do not believe that was the case.”

  “No, I do not. I’ve a hunch the knife fell from Gavin’s hand when Miss Barclay struck him with the poker.”

  The image of Joanna Barclay fighting for her life against a man armed with a knife iced Anthony’s blood. He looked down and noticed that he had made a fist. Very deliberately, he relaxed his fingers.

  “He went there to rape her and kill her,” he said quietly.

  “I’m absolutely certain that was the case. I had a look through Miss Barclay’s receipts and journal of accounts. Gavin had purchased three books from her on three separate occasions. That was part of his pattern, you see. He chose single women who were alone in the world. Shopkeepers he thought no one would miss, at least not for long. Women of modest backgrounds whose rank in the social order was much lower than his own.”

  “Bastard.”

  “A mentally unstable bastard, I believe,” Fowler said. “I’ve run into his sort before. I think he began by beating his victims, but after a while that was not sufficient to satisfy his unwholesome lust.”

  “So he started to murder them.”

  “And would likely have gone on doing so had Miss Barclay not stopped him,” Fowler said. “In my opinion, she did us all a great favor by dispatching Gavin to the Other World. A pity she is no longer with us. I suppose she took her own life because she feared she would be charged with murder.”

  “Such a fear would not be a fantasy, given her position in the world relative to Gavin’s.” He held Fowler’s eyes across the table. “We both know that if Gavin’s family had determined to see Miss Barclay hanged for murder they might well have prevailed.”

  Fowler’s heavy brows rose. “Unfortunately, Miss Barclay had no way of knowing that Gavin’s wife had no love for her husband and his family is secretly relieved that he is gone. I suspect they had reason to fear his rages.”

  “How did you learn that?”

  “I talked to the servants, of course. Until his death last year there was a very high turnover in staff in the Gavin household.”

  31

  Anthony emerged from his club shortly after midnight. He paused briefly to consider the wisdom of whistling for a cab and then abandoned the notion. The fog had slowed traffic to a snail’s pace. Even the usually quick, agile hansoms were forced to pick their way cautiously through the near-impenetrable mist. Walking would be faster. Besides, he did some of his best thinking while walking, and tonight he needed to think.

  He turned up the collar of his overcoat and started down the steps. A hansom halted in the street directly in front of him. A familiar figure descended with unsteady movements. Julian Easton was drunk as usual. Unfortunate timing, Anthony thought. He should have left the club five minutes earlier.

  “Stalbridge.” Julian gripped the iron railing on the steps to steady himself. “Leaving so soon? Don’t rush off on my account.”

  “I’m not.”

  Anthony started down the steps. Julian moved in front of him, blocking his way.

  “Off to visit the little widow in Arden Square?” Julian’s face twisted in a sneer. “Be sure to give her my regards.”

  Anthony stopped. “You’re in my way, Easton. I would appreciate it if you would move.”

  “In a hurry to get to her, I see.” Julian swayed a little. “I wonder how long it will take for her to comprehend that you are taking advantage of her naïveté.”

  “Why don’t you go inside and have another bottle of claret?”

  “Rather unfair of you to use her to cover up your affair with some other man’s wife, don’t you think?”

  “What I think is that you had best keep your speculations to yourself,” Anthony said quietly.

  “Now why would I do that when there are so many people eager to unravel the mystery?” Julian looked shrewd. “In fact, there are wagers going down in every club in St. James. Amazing how many gentlemen are curious to see which one of their wives you’re fucking while you hide behind Mrs. Bryce’s very unfashionable skirts.”

  “Get out of my way, Easton.”

  Easton’s face screwed up into a mask of rage. “Better not try to knock me down again, you bastard. I’m carrying a revolver these days to protect myself from you.”

  “Have a care. In your present condition you’re likely to shoot yourself in the foot. Now I must insist that you get out of my way.”

  “Damned if I’ll move.”

  Anthony gripped Julian’s arm and shoved him to the side. Julian came up hard against the iron railing. He seized it frantically to keep himself from losing his footing. By the time he recovered his balance, Anthony was at the bottom of the steps.

  Another carriage halted, disgorging three men in evening clothes. They took in the scene with expressions of amused curiosity.

  “Whose wife is she?” Julian shouted, voice rising in fury. “Which one of the gentlemen inside that club are you cuckolding, Stalbridge?”

  Anthony did not look back. He kept moving, walking into the fog.

  Streetlamps were abundant in this part of town. The glary balls of light in front of each doorway were strung like so many strange, glowing gems in the darkness. But on foggy nights such as this the light did not penetrate far. In the street, private carriages and cabs appeared and disappeared. The slow clop-clop-clop of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of wheels had a muffled quality. It was as if the fog ate sound the way it did light.

  He should warn Louisa about the wagers that were being placed in the club betting books, he thought. He paused at the corner, considering the time. She was very likely in bed, but surely she would want to be awakened with this latest information. She was always reminding him that they were partners, after all.

  He thought about how she would look at this hour, garbed in a dressing gown and slippers, her hair tucked into a little white cap or perhaps down around her shoulders. Smiling, he turned the corner and walked toward Arden Square.

  He was not certain when he became aware of the echo of footsteps behind him. There had been a number of other pedestrians on the street in the vicinity of the club. But as he moved into the quieter neighborhoods of town houses and squares there were far fewer people about.

  It wasn’t just the sound of the footsteps that bothered him; it was the pattern: Too similar to his own, he thought. Whoever was behind him was keeping a certain distance between them. He stopped, testing his theory. The footsteps continued for a few paces and then halted abruptly. He started walking again. The footsteps followed.

  He turned another corner and walked into Arden Square. The weak glare of the streetlamps illuminated the doors of the town houses, but the little park in the center was only a dark, shapeless void.

  He stopped. The person following him stopped, too. He crossed the street, heading toward the invisible park, the change of direction giving him an opportunity to glance casually to his right. A figure in an overcoat and top hat stood silhouetted on the pavement.

  Anthony entered the small park, following the gravel path. There was just enough fog-reflected moonlight to reveal the dark outlines of nearby tree trunks and the massed shapes of bushes.

  Hurried footsteps echoed. A moment later gravel crunched behind him.

  He removed his coat and hat. When he reached the statue of the wood nymph in the center of the park he
draped the coat around the stone shoulders. He balanced the hat on top of the nymph’s head.

  He moved across the grass into the shadows to examine his handiwork. By day no one would have been fooled, but here in the moonlight and fog the coat and hat bore a reasonable resemblance to a man who had paused to relieve himself.

  He waited. The footsteps came more quickly now. There was a certain nervous quality about them, as though the pursuer feared he had lost his quarry.

  A figure moved out of the deep shadow cast by a looming tree. The man stopped a few feet away from the draped statue. His arm came up, pointing.

  Anthony barely had time to register the dark shape of a gun in the man’s hand before he heard the unmistakable cocking of a revolver. A second later the weapon roared. Light sparked. There was a clang as the bullet struck stone. The attacker cocked the gun again and fired another shot. This time when the coat and hat did not fall to the ground, he seemed to lose his nerve. He whirled and fled back along the gravel path.

  Anthony lunged out of the shadows. Hearing the pounding footsteps behind him, the man paused, swung around, cocked the gun and fired again, aiming blindly.

  Not surprisingly, the shot thudded into a nearby tree trunk. Nevertheless, it occurred to Anthony that pursuit was probably not his most intelligent maneuver. He had his own revolver with him, but he was not prepared to start shooting people he could not identify. Reluctantly, he halted at the edge of the park, watching his quarry disappear into the night. Blood pounded in his veins.

  “Bloody hell.”

  The shots had not gone unnoticed. Shouts of alarm sounded from bedroom windows around the square.

  He went back to the nymph to retrieve his hat and coat. Sticking to the shadows as much as possible to avoid notice by the people peering down from the windows, he made his way through the park and crossed the street.

  He should not call on her now, he thought. Nevertheless, he found himself going up the steps of Number Twelve. She would want a report of events. She was a member of the press, after all. And he wanted to see her very badly.

  He did not need to bang the knocker. The door was jerked open before he could lift a hand. Louisa stood in the opening, peering anxiously through her spectacles. “Dear heaven, what happened? I heard the shots. I rushed downstairs and looked out the window and saw you coming across the street. Are you all right? What are you doing here? Were you attacked by a footpad?”

  The sight of her elevated his mood immediately. He had been right, he thought, oddly pleased. She did look delightfully inviting clad in a robe and slippers. The vital question of the evening was answered. She slept with her hair down.

  32

  Dear heaven, he put two bullets right through your coat.” Louisa stared, stricken, at the back of the coat. “You could have been killed.”

  “Except that I wasn’t wearing the coat at the time.” Anthony crossed the study to the brandy table and picked up the decanter. He watched Louisa hold the coat up to the light, verifying yet again that, yes, one could see straight through the holes in the back. He found her outraged concern deeply touching, but her lack of logic made him smile. “I told you, it was draped over the statue.”

  “He’s right, dear,” Emma said gently. “Mr. Stalbridge explained to you that he was not wearing the coat when he, or rather it, was shot.”

  “That’s not the point.” Louisa flung the coat across the back of the sofa and whirled back around to face Anthony. “The point is that you should never have taken such a risk. Walking the streets alone at night. Whatever were you thinking, sir?”

  He swallowed some of the brandy and lowered the glass. “I was under the impression that this was a respectable neighborhood.”

  “It is, but that doesn’t mean that people should just wander around alone at all hours making inviting targets for every passing footpad.”

  “It wasn’t a footpad who shot my coat,” he said quietly.

  Louisa and Emma both looked at him.

  “What on earth do you mean?” Louisa whispered.

  “I’m almost certain it was Hastings.” He paused, reflecting. “Although I suppose it could have been Easton.” He shook his head. “I believe that Easton was too drunk to follow me in the fog, let alone aim a gun. However, given that I could not be absolutely positive, I held my own fire.”

  “Dear heaven,” exclaimed Louisa, eyes widening. “You’re carrying a gun?”

  “Bought it when I was in the American West. Guns are quite common there. In the wake of Thurlow’s unanticipated demise, it seemed prudent to keep it on my person.” He shrugged. “Not that I would have been likely to hit a running target tonight, not in that fog. One of the things I learned in my travels in the Wild West was that revolvers are notoriously inaccurate except at close range.”

  “Oh, my,” Emma said. “This is a most disturbing development.”

  “What makes you think it was Hastings?” Louisa demanded.

  Anthony reflected briefly. “Right height. Something about the way he moved. I believe he followed me from the club, waiting for an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity to murder you.” Louisa sank down onto a chair, appalled. “Dear heaven. He knows we are investigating him.”

  “Not necessarily,” Anthony said. “I think it is more likely that he has reasoned out that I was the one who took the necklace and the blackmail items from the safe. That’s all he knows at this point, but it is more than enough to make him extremely worried. He has no way of knowing what I intend to do with the extortion evidence or the necklace.”

  Louisa’s brows snapped together. “Why did you come here at such a late hour tonight?”

  “I wanted to warn you that there are some unfortunate wagers going down in the club books.”

  Emma looked up, eyes sharp with concern. “What sort of wagers?”

  Anthony tightened his grip on the brandy glass. “The gamblers are betting on the name of the married woman with whom I am supposedly intimately involved.”

  Emma frowned. “I thought everyone believes that you and Louisa are engaged in a romantic liaison.”

  “Easton is putting it about that I am using an innocent lady, namely Louisa, to conceal an affair with some other gentleman’s wife,” he explained quietly.

  “Ridiculous,” Louisa said briskly. “I am hardly an innocent lady.”

  Anthony looked at her. So did Emma. Neither spoke.

  Louisa raised her chin. “I am a journalist.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Anthony saw Emma lift her eyes to the ceiling and then take a healthy swallow of brandy. He followed suit.

  “If we might return to the more pressing matter of the shooting?” Louisa said with a quelling glare.

  “Indeed.” He inclined his head. “I think it is safe to say that it is a good sign.”

  “A good sign?” Louisa gasped. “Someone just tried to murder you.”

  “And he failed.” Anthony contemplated the logic of the situation. “He took a wild chance and blundered badly. He will be much more cautious the next time because he knows that I am now on my guard.”

  “The next time?” Louisa was beyond horrified now.

  “Cheer up, my sweet.” He savored the little rush of satisfaction that flashed through him. “I believe we are making progress.”

  “How can you call nearly getting murdered in the park progress?” she demanded, outraged.

  Emma gave Anthony a considering look. “If you are right about Hastings being the one who tried to kill you tonight, I think it is safe to say that you have shaken his nerve. He must be feeling quite anxious, indeed, if he took the risk of attempting to murder a Stalbridge.”

  He swirled the brandy in his glass. “I certainly hope so. Anxious men make mistakes.”

  33

  I must tell you that we were all vastly relieved to hear the gossip about you and Anthony,” Clarice confided cheerfully.

  Louisa tripped over a small stone on the path. She staggered a bit and nea
rly lost her grip on her parasol before she caught her balance.

  “You were relieved?” she managed to say, aware that her mouth was probably hanging open in a most unbecoming fashion.

  She and Clarice were strolling through the extensive gardens behind the Stalbridges’ large house. Anthony had remained inside with his parents.

  This was not the first time Louisa had been flummoxed by a statement from one of the Stalbridge clan. It had been like this since Anthony had escorted her into the family’s elegant drawing room an hour ago and made introductions.

  Nothing had gone quite as she had expected. In spite of Anthony’s reassurances to the contrary, she had been braced for grim disapproval. Instead she was welcomed with unsettling enthusiasm. No one seemed the least bit horrified by the gossip that implied that she was having an affair with Anthony. Neither did anyone show any indication of being shocked by her career as a correspondent for the Flying Intelligencer. Instead, Mr. and Mrs. Stalbridge and Clarice had been all that was charming and gracious. They seemed fascinated rather than appalled by her.

  The discovery that Mrs. Stalbridge and Clarice were both devoted adherents of the rational dress movement had come as another pleasant surprise. Then again, she thought, why had she anticipated that the members of Anthony’s family would be any less out of the ordinary than he was? Emma had warned her that the Stalbridges were considered to be eccentrics, one and all.

  She remained cautious, of course. Given her dark past, she could not afford to become too close to anyone. Nevertheless, she had been unable to resist taking an instant liking to Clarice. It had been so long since she’d had a friend who was close to her own age. Navigating the waters of friendship was a treacherous proposition when one carried a terrible secret.

  “We are happy to see Anthony taking an interest in you because we have been so worried about him,” Clarice explained. “Last year, after his fiancée died, he became absolutely obsessed with the notion that she was murdered. It affected his mood for weeks. We all became quite alarmed, to be honest.”